


Second Breakfast

by ProwlingThunder



Series: Sapphire Slivers In Ashwood [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings Online
Genre: Gen, Middle Earth is Real, Modern Day Elves, Original Character (Imorrael), Then To Now timeline, game character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-17 21:46:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3544922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProwlingThunder/pseuds/ProwlingThunder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imorrael receives mail from unlikely sources, and a fond gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Breakfast

**Author's Note:**

> So Imorrael is my (unfortunately clutzy) elf-archer from Rivendell, born as my character for LotRO.

The knock was a sharp rasp against her door; the hidden door, turned to the treeside, where only she came and went. It was not a location many knew-- indeed, only Imorrael herself was aware of it's location. She did not share it even with the LARPing group she called her own Fellowship, or those few she called her kin. It existed only to let her come and go from the woods within the shadows of the great willow tree, hidden from prying eyes beneath the trail of branches.

For someone to knock could mean only one thing.

She made her way through her home to the hidden door, slipping on a housecoat as she went. She was an Elf maiden, perhaps, and while she was completely at ease traversing the world as she had been brought to it, the changing years of men had managed to instill a certain measure of modesty. Never mind that few other races would be so understanding to see her even in her small-clothes, and the likelihood of an Elf or a Man being at this entrance was terribly slim.

The door was a seam in the wall, invisible to most. If she ever stopped using it, she might have forgotten it was there. But she had not.

There was a Hobbit on the other side.

A postman, if the mailbag was anything to go by. But not just any postman; a Bounder, with a three feathered cap. She had one just like it, though older by all means, carefully tended to and preserved through the lifetimes of Men. Imorrael had learned so much about _hat care_ for the thing. It was among the oldest pieces in her wardrobe. She had carried it with her everywhere, through all the years. A single season where the Shirelings had needed an extra hand during festivities, and oh, she had carried a mailbag too, one of her many favorite things. She remembered that year fondly.

The mailbag was gone now. They hadn't let her _keep_ it. But seeing one now was worth the reminiscence. There were no finer people than Hobbits if one really wanted to get something where it was meant to be.

“Imorrael of Imladris?”

It had been a long time since she had been called that name. But if someone wished to be sure it came to _her_ and no other... Well, that would be the name it must be sent by.

“I am so, Master Postman. Please come inside; I was about to settle down for Second Breakfast, and I would be honored for you to join me.” First Breakfast, truly. But what the Postman did not know, she did not need to tell him. The hour was right for a Hobbitish Second Breakfast, and years upon years did not negate what little cultural understanding Imorrael had held.

It had improved her cooking skills, at least.

 

The package was from an old friend; an elf-lord some years her junior, whose parents had sailed to the West lifetimes ago and who, as she, lived the quiet life of Man as a dog might have to the flock of sheep. He lived some ways away; even with modern conveniences of Man, which she was loath to use, it will still take her nearly a week to get to him.

It was lembas, a request all on it's own. Wrapped in elven-leaves, and wrapped again in a stitched banner of Kinship.

Another request.

Imorrael considered the brown wrapping and twine of shipment and wondered what she was to make of those, if there were a secret hidden beyond what her elf-eyes could see.

She would have to wait.

 

The letter was from a mountain with secret doors, with secret words and secret dwarves. It said little, but greeted her formally and requested a visit, provided a map for her use. It was signed with a name both familiar and not, and a rubbing of Kinship.

Letters from the dwarven-folk were ill news, always.

 

The feather, the Postmaster gave to her. “For your cap,” he said, flashing her a smile and a wink. “Early, but you'll earn it yet, Lady.”

Then he made his way out her hidden door and vanished into the woods, silent and invisible as any Hobbit might, and took with him the crest of Kinship on his breast. 

 

She was Imorrael of Imladris, and her mother's daughter, and the child her father had probably never known. She was a Hunter of Middle-Earth, with a four-feathered Bounder cap and fifty-league boots. She was a tailor of renown, a woods-woman and an ore-smith. She was of the first-born, old and respected, in a time the world at large had forgotten. She was a Knight of a old Kinship, with old scars and old hurts.

But still, she _was_ , and that was enough.

It was time enough that she went home, Imorrael decided, yet not quite the moment.


End file.
